


Cocktails and mischief

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: All Gold wants is a decent scotch and a little solitude. Surely that's not too much to ask for? It's all going to plan until Belle decides to join him...





	Cocktails and mischief

It’s late. Too late, really, to be ordering another drink but it’s one of those nights after one of those days and he has probably gone past the stage of being able to make a decision that isn’t purely driven by alcohol, so he raises his hand to catch the eye of Keith Nott and get a refill of the most palatable scotch the Rabbit Hole offers. It’s not saying much but it’s better than whatever the alternative is. Not that that’s a particularly high benchmark. He’s fairly sure the bar keep isn’t above watering down the liquor, given half a chance.

He’s ensconced in a dark (well darker) corner of the bar, taking up a six-seater red leather banquette that quite frankly has seen better days. The same could also be said of the clientele who appear to represent the less appealing end of the social spectrum. The usual suspects, in fact, who are shooting pool, downing shots at an impressive rate and busily heckling a group of young women seated in the opposite corner to him and who look as if they’d rather be elsewhere. He wonders, moodily, why they’re putting up with the nonsense being thrown at them but maybe their judgement is as impaired as his is.

He waits until his glass is replenished and then takes a sip. Not bad, not bad at all. Shame about the noise levels that are becoming ever more raucous. He shudders, feeling grateful that he’s as far away from the louts as possible. He glares over at them but they’re too engrossed in the game to notice. 

A flash of colour suddenly draws his attention over to the bar. He can’t quite make out who it is trying to order drinks as they have their back to him but he takes a moment to admire a dress that’s pleasantly form fitting and appreciate that the four inch heels add some not unwelcome definition to a pair of shapely calves. Thoroughly intrigued now as to who is capable of wearing skyscraper shoes whilst clearly more than a trifle inebriated he forgets himself enough to crane his neck forward in search of further clues until with a shock he realises that she’s noticed what he’s up to thanks to the mirrored tiles decorating the back of the bar. 

Tawny meets aquamarine for a moment too long and then he ducks his head down, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, mentally berating himself for such a school boy error and studies with great interest the contents of his glass before taking a healthy gulp. Give it a couple of minutes and she’ll have ordered and be on her way, he hopes. 

But it turns out it’s just not going to be his night, because a few moments later he suddenly becomes aware of someone sliding into the seat opposite him. He takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink and then looks up, a frown on his face, ready to put the fear of god into whoever it is that thinks it’s ok for them to impose their company on him when with a jolt to his stomach which is clearly thanks to the scotch going down the wrong way, he realises that the foolhardy person is none other than Storybrooke’s one and only librarian.

Miss French is new to the town and is therefore no doubt oblivious to the fact she’s doing what only the stupid or the very brave do, which is interrupting him when he’s drinking. Alone. Given her job, he'll give her (just this once) the benefit of the doubt and assume it's the latter although judging by the looks of bafflement adorning the faces of her friends, the school teacher and the waitress, they clearly think she’s lost her mind. 

As she’s invaded his space, he decides to wait her out, confident she wouldn’t be able to bear the yawning silence even if she was stone cold sober. Which she clearly isn’t. He counts patiently to five, and then ten. But she says nothing, just carries on sitting there as if she’s not strayed into the lion’s den, watching him with huge eyes that are starting to sparkle a little with - is that - amusement?

Well fine, if that’s how she wants to play it, so so be it.

“Is there anything I can help you with Miss French?”

The amusement in her eyes deepens.

“Well y’know, once Snow has more than two beers, she gets pretty wild and out of control so I thought I’d save myself from the karaoke machine by coming over to check out the guy who was checking me out at the bar.”

He’s so taken aback at her bare-faced cheek that all he can do is stare at her in consternation. This is not exactly how he’d seen this conversation starting out yet despite himself he’s rather intrigued.

He decides to throw down a challenge and see where that gets him. “Given that you’re very bold this evening perhaps it’s not just the teacher who’s a lightweight.”

She takes a long and deliberate drink of something that is alarmingly blue and no doubt highly toxic and then takes out the straw and waves it in his face, oblivious to the fact that tiny droplets are flying through the air and landing on his cheeks. He uses his tongue to lick up a trace close to his lip. Definitely toxic. Maybe this tiny slip of a girl is made of stronger stuff than he’d allowed for.

“You think I’m a lightweight huh? Bet I could drink you under the table.”

He smirks. “You do know that I’m Scottish. And that we’re renowned for our ability to hold our drink?” He points to his glass. “This is my sixth. And I’d like to point out to you that unlike some people, my speech is not slurry. Also,” and here he nods at the straw which is still perilously close to his face, “I am still fully aware that it’s inappropriate to brandish drinking aids willy nilly. Or accost complete strangers when all they’re trying to do is enjoy a quiet drink.”

She emits the most unladylike snort imaginable once he leans back in his seat (is it his imagination or did she mumble something about her knowing more about him than he realises)? Well no matter. He feels more comfortable in her (admittedly drunken) presence than he has done in anyone else’s in a very long time. Perhaps he has been more affected by the alcohol than he’d realised. Or maybe it’s because she clearly doesn’t care two hoots who he is or what he does. Perhaps (and this is less comforting) she just sees a lonely old bloke who needs some company, which is most unedifying. He resolutely shuts that thought down before the idea gets hold.

He watches her study him for a moment and she’s very still and focused for a moment or two but then she slurps the last of her drink (her unladylike behaviour is surprisingly endearing) and obviously reaches a decision because she waves Keith over. “Fine, then. Let’s get another round in and see what happens next.” She asks for something he’s never heard of and imagines there’s a very good health-based reason for this and he hears himself asking for another refill. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes.

The drinks arrive promptly. Hers is lurid and no doubt sickly sweet. She pops the glace cherry into her mouth in a manner that really is positively indecent (his trousers are all of a sudden feeling alarming tight and he shifts uncomfortably), twirls the paper parasol around the glass a couple of times before picking it up and tucking it behind her ear and then takes a sip of her drink, humming happily before seeing his look of disbelief.

“What? WHAT? Oh god, you’re one of these snobs aren’t you, sneering at the rest of us lesser mortals who can’t afford $100 bottles of bordeaux.” She takes a defiant second sip and dares him to say anything. He decides it’s probably wiser to keep quiet so he simply raises his eyebrows at her and then picks up his glass, ice clinking as he drinks.

“You’re jumping to lots of conclusions about me this evening,” he says without any noticeable inflection in his voice, “and really without any real justification. Yes I like a good red wine and yes I prefer a decent scotch to the usual shite you get served here, but I’m not always averse to the less expensive things in life. After all you can’t beat eating fish and chips out of a paper bag down on the seafront on a summer’s day. ”

She’s silent for a second and then leans in across the table, the silky fabric of her top shifting so he catches a tantalising glimpse of something blue and lacy before she shrugs the collar back up and sadly it’s gone. “Fine. Sorry, that was rude. But, forgive me if I point out that you’re here,” and she gestures around the bar, “in a $500 suit, Italian shoes and sporting a haircut that most definitely took longer than five minutes with a razor when everyone else here is in denim and t-shirts. You don’t exactly look like you belong.”

He nods. There’s no denying it but then where else is there to go to get a drink in this town? He wants to refrain from pointing out the obvious, that she too looks out of place, but can’t resist saying “Hello pot, meet kettle,” before tacitly changing the subject by telling her that her companions look like they’re ready to leave. 

Snow starts to beckon her over but he notices that following a swift but silent exchange between the women, the rest of the group quickly gather their belongings and wave a cheery goodbye. Snow mimes ‘call me’ and then they’re gone, leaving him alone with her in their strange little bubble. He notes she’s chewing on her lip and he waits to see whether she’s going to offer up some sort of explanation for her presence this evening so he waits patiently to see what her next move might be. 

His patience is eventually rewarded when after a hearty glug of the travesty of a drink in front of her (she doesn’t even shudder which makes him ever more certain he’d be wise to not underestimate the librarian, he’s offered a titbit of information. 

“Messy break up.”

He looks at her expectantly, waiting to see if there’s more where that came from but she mimes that’s she’s zipping her mouth shut, eyes twinkling. Given that she doesn’t look distraught he thinks it’s safe for him to probe further and have some gentle sport with her at the same time.

“So the school teacher’s finally ditched that useless husband of hers then?” 

The glare shot his way makes him chuckle so he decides to carry on. “And she’s decided to have a torrid affair with Archie. But Pongo doesn’t much care for her and she’s had to take to keeping pepper spray in her bag to keep him at bay for fear of having her arm ripped off.”

She shakes her head, eyes brimming with mischief.

“Right, so not Archie then. What about Dr Whale? Hold on, I know - it’s the pharmacist isn’t it? The one who’s always sneezing in a most unhygienic way?”

She’s remaining silent. Ok then. This should get a reaction. “Or perhaps”, he purrs, “I’m barking up the wrong tree. After all she and Ruby did look rather cosy this evening. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, Miss French, so they say.”

He’s rewarded with an affronted look and a growl. He grins wolfishly in return.

“Fine. So we’ve discounted Snow on the grounds that she’s purely than. And Ruby. Well, I shouldn’t think she wastes much energy on actually being in a relationship so a breakup isn’t going to be affecting her. Which brings me onto you, Miss French.”

He pauses to take another sip of his drink, whilst he assesses his options. She’s eyeing him up a little more cautiously now so he knows he’s on the right track with her. He casts around in his mind for who on earth she’d want to date in this town. She’s the librarian after all, clearly smart, clearly beautiful, clearly out of pretty much everybody’s league. A small voice helpfully tells him that he too falls into the out of her league category.

He coughs, more to help him focus on the matter in hand, rather than because he needs to clear his throat. He’s no idea what time it is but the bar’s emptied out, it looks like it’s just them caught up in their own little world of excessive alcohol. He’s not feeling in the slightest bit tired though, in fact the blood is fizzing in his veins and she - all things considered - is also looking remarkably perky. So he decides to spin out the evening a little longer. It’s not like he’s got some place to be.

She cocks her head at him and he can’t help thinking she looks rather adorable. Oh this is going to be too easy, like kicking a puppy. But he has a reputation to maintain and it’ll teach her not to let her guard down in future with a man old enough -

In for the kill he goes. But before he does so, he shrugs off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. No point in dirtying them on the sticky table. Then he leans forward, holding her gaze, and whispers “Who did the breaking up. You. Or him?” He’s rather thrilled when she matches his movements until their forearms are almost touching, before breathing “Me.” 

Aha, he thinks, having to tamp down a thrill of excitement at this disclosure that threatens his composure. He schools his face to give nothing away. So that’s why she’s not looking deeply distressed. But then, he wonders, what drove her to call things off. Further enquiries are required.

“Was it serious, were you together a while?”

She pauses and gives him an apprising look that makes him think that possibly he's not been quite as successful as he'd have liked in his aim for careful neutrality but then crooks her finger and beckons him even closer. He hesitates which seems to irk her because one minute they’re about three feet apart from each other, the next she’s grabbed hold of his tie and yanked him in so close he can smell bacardi on her breath. It’s less unpleasant an experience than he’d have imagined which means he's clearly drunker than is good for him.

“D’you want to know what happened?” and he finds himself really very badly wanting to know but at the same time worries that any control he had over the proceedings has some somehow been wrestled from him by the surprisingly strong grip of the teeny tiny fairy person opposite him. How can someone that wee be so - 

The next second he can breathe again as she relinquishes her grasp of his neckwear and the second after that his heart stops as she slides - less than elegantly if truth be told - out of her seat to suddenly slither in next to him. What had seemed like a very generous seating area just moments ago now seems to be the size of a postage stamp. From this angle he is able to admire her dress, which while short on material is more than generously compensated for by sparkles and fluidity of movement. He’s not a great connoisseur of ladies fashion but he wholeheartedly approves of Miss French’s outfit.

Her leg is now pressed up against his and is it him or is it starting to feel rather hot in here? He’s already partly disrobed but he decides no harm can come from loosening the knot in his tie. He wouldn’t want to suffocate now would he. It’d be a most unfortunate end to the evening.

He’s disturbed from his rambling musings by a small hand resting on top of his. Miss French is clearly waiting for further questions and it would be rude to keep her waiting. He rummages through his mind for something sensible to say but comes up wanting. He’s just aware of warm hands and thighs and he has absolutely zero idea of how all of this has come to pass. Miss French must have been an illusionist in a former life, demure librarian on the outside, demon man-eater on the inside and he’d pay good money to see her Act if she ever went on the stage.

He’s brought back to the present by a sharp nip to his earlobe and he can’t help emitting a little yelp that’s half surprise, half something that runs deep inside him making his stomach flip (and has nothing to do with the seven - or is it eight - drinks currently sloshing around his system). The nip is followed up by a lick and he knows now that there is only one way this evening is ending and he’s thrilled and scared in equal measure. He just hopes that the combination of tequila, curacao and rum won’t be a cause of regret because if this just turns out to be a one-off, well he can’t bear to think it.

Just before panic starts to kick in, he can’t be sure but he thinks he hears her say “Mine” under her breath and keen to not miss anything else she wants to purr into his ear (‘mine’ sounds highly - promising) he turns his head slightly so that her next lick misses its intended target and instead lands on the corner of his mouth. 

The second time she says it, there’s no mistaking the intent in her voice. He’s of the opinion that it’d be rude not to reply so he starts to murmur “Yours” but then it’s her mouth on his, warm and soft. He closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into the kiss, savouring every sensation and praying it's not the scotch playing tricks on his mind. Somehow though he knows it isn't. That this is real. And for now, it's more than enough.


End file.
